-Euralian Fringe East, Kal'Lenna

  "The rest of the 6th Guards were merely holding the enemy back by a thread past the Merah'Deen gorge, so how goes your last venture?" a fellow sorceress from the 4th Battle-cadre questions, garnering yet another sigh from me.

  Her inquiries have grown bolder since our return to Kal'Lenna. Even now, I could not decide whether to be annoyed by her prodding, or be awed by it.

  For untold days, we held back the Yhunian tides where we could. From reporting on the strengths of their forces, to raiding their supply lines, and even committing acts of assassinations on those of notable stature—soldier or not.

  There simply is nothing in this decadent theatre that is too low, or heinous enough to warrant restraint. Our commanders demanded no less than utmost deference to their decrees, or be ousted as traitors to the Kingdom, the Army, and the Queen herself.

  To muster such a persistent demeanor through all that is... unusual to say the least. It certainly is made worse when fate deems it necessary that we share a wagon on our journey into the city.

  The trotting of hooves and the slow glide of the city's vibrant streets wipes away those thoughts and brings me back to Alna's questioning gaze. Even should the sky itself fall, it would not be unthinkable to believe she would wait for an answer should I remain silent.

  Mindless chatter is preferable to enduring the short journey to the barracks in awkward silence I suppose.

  Shrugging lightly, I slowly relent to her constant prodding—unwanted as they are. "We chanced across a casualty assembly point on our last day. It only had a token force of soldiers to guard it, so we drew them away by starting a fire."

  A frown appears on the Sorceress' face. "And then what," she says, voice sunken with unease.

  Taking the reigns from me, Sephra answers on my behalf with her dark eyes veiled with shame. "We slaughtered their menders, and offered the Queen's mercy to those who wouldn't survive without them," the Cadre's Mender coldly answers, the guilt still clawing at her soul even after four days have passed since.

  "We killed eleven before the guards returned—before we could answer for our crimes." She shakes her head, gaze cast back to the ground, as though deeming herself unworthy to even set eyes on those around her.

  To her, slaying those Menders meant betraying a part of her soul. They were compatriots in her eyes, charged with the same noble obligation to heal those in need, no matter their allegiance. It was akin to slaughtering allies in cold blood.

  "Quite a feat to best them is it not? A mere three against a full camp—albeit a small one," one of Alna's men remarks with a spirited voice—a young, spirited mage who often speaks ahead of his thoughts.

  "One could hardly consider that a battle. You would know this had you even glimpsed even a mere snippet of our ventures. We delved furthest and even held our own against Yhunian Pathfinders, though it was more us escaping their wrath by a thin thread," Oswin adds with a fiery tinge upon his words, raising his ire against the inexperienced mage who then averts his gaze.

  The young man shifts in his place and humbles himself with a small nod. "I can only hope my Cadre and I will have the chance to prove our mettle—her Majesty be willing."

  A ghost of a smile lingers on my lips. "See that you kindle that flame then."

  The sorcerer returns the smile. "Always."

  That innocence, optimism, and a jovial spirit—the obvious mark of a warrior yet to be tempered, before their first violent thrust into the fray. In him, a mirage of myself. Someone unscarred by the guilt of bloodshed, of taking a person's life beneath the mantle of war. Those days now seem like a lifetime ago.

  Silence follows, save for the trotting of hooves upon stone. The clamour of Kel'Lenna's citizens fades as we went past a final gate to thread onto the fortress city's secluded military quarter.

  The streets give way to narrow, serpentine paths which fed into the garrison's lively assortments of barracks, tents, and nesting pads for the army's revered Silverwing Garrison. But towering above all and set upon the skyline as an ominous bastion of dark gray is the imperial Citadel.

  Upon its spires are the flags of the Royal Regalia—a radiant crown and its twinned swords cast against faded red, flying proudly beneath the sun's tempered gaze. It has been two hundred years since this city had sworn fealty to the Crown, and signs of its original architecture can still be seen enduring to this day—tall spires marked etched with the symbols of old Gods only a few within worship still. That bastion is—was the pinnacle of a once proud, and independent city state.

  It is novel, even now to realize that even within the same borders, a culture could be so vastly different. It brings forth a curious thought, of what my homeland was like—what my ancestors worshipped, before being brought to heel all those centuries ago. Perhaps a visit to the city's public archives is in order, should time permit.

  Soon enough, our journey concludes. The wagon slows as it approaches a curve which loops back onto itself. At the end stands a complex almost akin to a small fortress, its stone walls bearing the sigil of the 21st Royal Cohort.

  Both Cadres disembark without delay and assemble at the side waiting for the rest of our cohort to follow our lead. The trotting of hooves soon resumes and the entourage of wagons retreats back into the heart of the city.

  The Cohort is battered, bloodied, but of fighting strength still. Now is the time to rest. To take solace in the enduring heart of the famed fortress city without fear of a knife to my back, and finally rest my senses.

  Nothing much seems to have changed at first glance. Commanders still led their troops in drills of cadence, and the few Silverwings that lingered upon the nesting pads still watched over the quarter with keen eyes, ever watchful of those around them as is their nature.

  And yet, there were rumours of strange visitors clad in dark-carapace armour, whose faces are hidden beneath black helmets, and boasting strange blue emblems upon their arms. I would have paid no heed to such a claim had it simply came from just one person, but it echoed from across the ranks like wildfire.

  Some claimed a glimpse of those visitors, sighting them entering the city's Royal districts and swearing them to be emissaries from the northern continent. Others saw them alongside two, oddly dressed outsiders, guarded by an entourage from the city's garrison. These are but a few I have heard thus far.

  It is hard to discern the truth amongst the chaff, yet one thing is clear. Soldiers from that mysterious third faction are within Kal'Lenna, and they have been here for many days now.

  "Thinking about them again?" Sephra gently nudges me on the arm, prying me away from such thoughts yet again.

  I look away from her gentle gaze, fearing she would sense the bitterness within. "How could I not. I still have much to reflect upon for that battle."

  "Hindsight is always clarion, best to let it go," she answers with a rare tinge of conviction, "their people may have slain two of our mates, but it was not without reason. And I doubt that is why they are here. I tire seeing you hold yourself in contempt."

  I brush aside her hand and relent with a nod. Her worries held merit, it always did. For now I will brush the rumours aside for her sake. But I can hardly rest easy knowing these people are somewhere inside the city.

  The Cohort will stay for eight days before returning to the fight. Surely this means I will chance upon them.

  ======

  -Kal'Lenna, Military Quarter

  -21st Royal Cohort Barracks

  Two days have passed and the rumours have merely grown. Now, instead of random tidings which offered conflicting accounts, a firm narrative has now taken root.

  Today's hearsay again spoke of eight such soldiers, and the two emissaries which they protected. Someone has ventured to the trading district and boasted of seeing them claim an abandoned workshop, tearing down its old signage and replacing it with a flag their own. I remain by the doorway, peaking on occasions whilst listening to the man as he recounted his tales.

  "There were mages from the Interior Guard amongst them—ten at least," the soldier claims amidst the cold silence, his back turned to me.

  "And what business would they have to offer?" another adds from across the foyer.

  The soldier shakes his head. "That outlet is close to the Royal district—merely a hundred paces away. I've seen its servants attending to it—polishing the windows, removing unwanted furniture, or anything else as decreed by those dark-clad soldiers."

  The notion of such arrangements taking place so close to the Royal district, even under the eyes of the Interior Guard, is troubling. And yet, also curious.

  I step forward from the shadows, voice cutting through their musings. "Servants—of what kind?"

  The soldier turns to me, as did his companion. "Stewards and maids I presume—most are women. It is fair to say their presence is not without good reason," he answers.

  His words linger like embers in the winds—left to fester and grow in the ensuing silence. Servants of the city's Royal District, tending to the affairs of these visitors as though they had been hastily granted the Queen's favour. Such concessions are unthinkable even from an Emissary of a respected nation.

  And yet, it could be hardly anything else. "An embassy," I perk up.

  The second soldier—a Low Marshall hums in agreement. "It would explain why those visitors deem it necessary to mark their enclave with a flag," she answers.

  "I see, please excuse me." Both offer knowing looks yet do nothing to dissuade me. I leave both to their own and make haste towards the city centre.

  What they revealed is certainly intriguing. And with ample time to spare, I would rather see this... enclave in person—to witness these visitors in the flesh. The city's public archive—with all its revelations, can wait.

  The timeless hum of daily life returns—the chime of bells, merchants calling to their wares, and stern footsteps of fellow soldiers in uniform. All of this reminded me of home—of what I missed in the days since leaving all that I ever knew behind. But like shades of blue in the sky, there were differences all around, like the ebb of waves with each passing surge.

  Each turn offers something new to behold. Fringe eastern culture is more strange than familiar—like distant echoes of a stranger's voice, beckoning to be answered. But I stay my focus, and weave deeper into the bustling streets.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The journey is long, but uneventful. Soon, the crowd thins. Regal spires soon replace the common domes ahead, like jagged teeth aiming to pierce the very skies themselves. The city's beating cadence slows and flags of the affluent houses flew proudly in the street ahead.

  Here the ambiance is different—more reserved, and perhaps mired in privilege. The roads are cleaner—wider, and polished with lustrous marble stone, with hints of exotic perfumes lingering in the air like spices upon food. This is the domain of the city's elites, and it shows through harsh eyes on me.

  What hushed murmurs there were dwindled to nothing. Even in uniform, my presence is met with cold silence, and a haughty look from a girl draped in such audacious finery that she was more silk than skin. I tear my gaze away and continue onwards, thinking nothing more the girl. There will always be those of brazen entitlement no matter the place.

  On the next turn of the street, lies a dormant store—the one I sought after. Flying proudly at its zenith is a flag boasting a deep blue. At its heart, an intricate weave of pale shapes masked with fine threads akin to a spider's web. Gently encircling this design are two outstretched leaves which cradled all but the top.

  Its heraldry is foreign—strange even, but fascinating. Then, I finally see them. For a moment, I wondered if these are the same soldiers I fought against. Their faces are still masked, veiled behind dark plates which reflected nothing but emptiness. They are just as menacing as I remembered.

  Two are on the distant balcony, their spouting weapons at the ready, jealously guarding their holdings without falter. One of the soldiers raises a deft hand to me and a cold surge of dread races through me. But the fear is unfounded. Both soldiers simply stared, and I in turn, them. There is no malice, or hint of danger to be felt beneath their hidden gaze, and they soon ignore me. I stand my ground, growing bolder until curiosity demanded I step closer to the workshop turned embassy. Their peers linger below, surrounded by servants of the city's palace.

  Near the entrance, a maid bows her head whilst talking to one of the soldiers. Her expression remains measured, as though this is merely another day of service. The woman returns inside the workshop without hesitation, heeding whatever decree she has been given. Returning his ire on me, the lone soldier steps forward and crosses his arms as though to oppose my presence. He did not carry a weapon, though I did not feel any less at ease from his gaze.

  The soldier remains silent, staring harshly through that empty sheen where a face should be. I despised the way it hid one's expression. It was no different to discerning the musings of a rock-futile, without purpose.

  "Curious..." I silently mouth, watching the man stride across the courtyard to resume his affairs—whatever they may be.

  I take a few steps back and watch their ventures unfold. For a time, I linger around the premise this time at a greater distance, quietly observing them—respecting their claims upon this outlet.

  The sun hangs low now and spills its golden tidings upon the city, painting rich shades of amber and deep ochre on the stone walls of the newfound embassy. A faint warmth lingers in the air, promising the advent of a quiet night. I've seen enough.

  There is more to this affair than local hearsay could ever reveal. But staying further is pointless. After one final glance at the workshop-turned-embassy, I turn on my heel and retreat back into the city, embracing the quiet solace of a newly minted night sky.

  The next day arrives and even before the sun has revealed itself, I am awake. I wander through the streets and take solace in the peace it offered as I journey back to that strange embassy. Most of the city is asleep, yet to be stirred by first light. Only a numbered few are awake, and those people pay me little heed—if any.

  Soon enough, the embassy lies before me, its foreign standard flying high, illuminated by a pale sheen of light. It is empty, save for the flickers of candlelight through a window. Someone is here. Without thought, I shift a hand down to my waist and run my fingers lightly against the familiar contours of my sceptre. Should the unlikely happen, I can still defend myself.

  From behind, the presence of footsteps draws me away from the moment. I turn around, making little sense of the shadowed figures through the darkness of early morning. At first, I assume them to be more of these strange soldiers, but the familiar clang in their armour ease my worries.

  "You there," a voice shouts from the group of three. They swiftly approach and move to stand before me. A small flame then emerges to dispel the darkness and flickers lightly over the gloved palm of the person closest to me.

  I stiffen, but answer without delay. "Y—yes?" In the moment, I wonder if my actions have somehow warranted the stern tone.

  The embassy is beside the Royal District, and such might have fallen under the protection of its intricate web of laws and customs. Such a conclusion is further bolstered by the identity of the three soldiers.

  "Interior Guard," I quietly murmur, the realization setting in with a sharp chill.

  Without pause, the lead soldier takes another step forward, his imposing frame towering over mine. He is taller, and broader than me.

  "High Marshall Serilas. Please follow me," the mage instructs, looking down to meet my gaze.

  The High Marshall's tone leaves little for debate, and though I briefly wondered if I should protest against his command—to ask why as is within reason, but I think better of it. I rather not raise trouble against members of the Queen's esteemed regiment.

  "Okay," I answer, and allow the elite sorcerers to surround me.

  They quickly usher me away from the embassy and make haste towards an emellished archway. A chill runs through me—Royal District. But why? I risk a glance to the guards beside me. Their cold expressions did little to quell my newfound fears. Maybe I truly did violate an obscure law, or is it simply that my presence has spawned unwanted scrutiny.

  I sift through memory, recalling the many laws and customs that govern the Queen's many domains. The instructors at Mage-school Ferrin taught me well. I did not overstep any boundaries.

  "What business do you have bringing me to the Royal District?" I question to all three, hoping for an answer that would shed some light to this sudden request.

  "It is not our place to say," High Marshall Serilas answers, his pace never faltering, "You shall be brought to Princess Ellysia Ver'Nohria the third. Our Royal Highness will do the honours, not us."

  The name strikes me like an arrow let loose. I had known that the Queen's youngest daughter had taken residence in the city, but not why she would choose such a distant place to call home. I take a deep breath—something to quell the surprise.

  Few have the honour of meeting Kingdom Royalty, and now the opportunity is suddenly thrust onto me. One of the mages, the youngest of the three and seemingly close to my age, halts the procession and raises a finger to draw attention to the ornate residence ahead.

  "There's no reason to fret over the summons. You have done no wrong. Just clear your mind and speak only when it is requested and give the Princess your utmost attention," the young man explains.

  "She will be expecting you in reception—the first room past the entrance," the second mage continues.

  Resting a firm hand on my shoulder, High Marshall Serilas offers a warm, and steady gaze. Only then did I notice a faded scar running from his brow to the cleft of his stubby chin. The mark grazed his left eye, leaving it a pale, sickly hue which no longer offered sight.

  "Now go." A hint of urgency spills from his voice. Their part in this affair is done, though mine is only beginning.

  After excusing myself and offering parting words to the mages, I make my way to the residence ahead.

  "Just simply one of the Queen's daughters—whose words can hold sway over an entire city," I whisper, shuddering as the weight of meeting Royalty truly settles upon me.

  "... where a single word out of place can have me in chains."

  I steady my breath and halt the frivolous thoughts. The large doors loom before me, partially opened to reveal a glimpse of the embellished interior ahead.

  There is no turning back now.

  ======

  -Kal'Lenna, Royal District

  "Inora Ver'Riyah, 3rd Battle Cadre of the 21st Royal Cohort—Fringe Western army.... heeding your summons as expected... your Royal Highness."

  The Princess sits with an impassive look, her gaze still fixed upon the book resting on her lap as though I am not worthy of intrigue.

  I keep my ire from showing as she slowly turns a page. Only then did the Princess offer me a glance.

  "You begin by addressing me first—be it name or honourifics, followed by everything else," the Princess lectures with a frown now tugging at her lips.

  "Of course, your Royal Highness." I concede with a nod, about to extend my apologies for the slight when she raises a palm to halt me.

  "I expected as such for a commoner plucked from the Fringe West—Velnor was it?" she freely asks, as though it was not a veiled insult.

  "Yes," I answer whilst staying the urge to roll my eyes. Princess Ellysia is just about as kind as the whispers claim her to be.

  "My servants have seen you skulking around the embassy of the visitors—the humans, as they call themselves. But this is not the first time you chanced upon them yes?" Princess Ellysia asserts.

  "To my great shame yes, I led a Cadre on a—"

  "Spare me the drivel. I've taken the liberty to study the affairs of that skirmish and the events preluding to such a needless fight. Some within your cohort question your right to lead—that you have stones for eyes, and that a child would have harboured better foresight," she recites, raising a finger for each point she delivers.

  A flicker of annoyance flares up in my chest. Royalty or not, that was uncalled for. The words of my fellow kin stung dearly, and I need no reminders of the vocal few who dared to slander me behind my back. Maybe their insults held merit, though it still hurt—like a blade twisting in places hands could never reach.

  I steel myself and return her daring gaze. "And yet I stand before you, your Royal Highness. What need do you have of me if not to chastise my presence upon this... human embassy?"

  Princess Ellysia leans forward, lips turned upwards to flaunt a cunning smirk. "Have your attention now do I?" she muses, amusement dancing within her eyes, reflecting a deep shade of violet which harboured only veiled intent.

  She pauses, and revels in the momentary silence before continuing.

  "For all the misfortunes of being the last in line to the throne, it also meant freedom from the burdens of courtly theatrics—of the power struggles between my blood and half sisters. All of that, merely for the promise of a crown over their dainty heads," she scoffs, and gestures to herself, the amusement faltering from her eyes.

  It is a fleeting moment—wordless, in the immediate solace of her tirade. The woman behind that sharp tongue, a brief mirage of who she is—revealed for only an instant.

  But just as quickly as it appears, that fickle side vanishes, replaced with a harsh demeanor befitting of her reputation—of the image I held of the Princess, one that painted her as arrogant above all else.

  "I offer a proposal—one that would take you and your Cadre away from your Cohort. You shall serve me—and to some extent, the Royal Family in our eternal bid to ensure Euralia's continued eminence and sovereignty," the Princess declares with a solemn tone.

  She stands up and saunters closer, hands clasped firmly at the front. Grace emanates from her every step and sway, further bolstered by the regal elegance of her silken dress—the light blue seamlessly gliding across her figure like gentle waves of the ocean. Delicate patterns of green danced along her sleeves, akin to a lively forest beneath the soft ire of a chandelier above.

  She raises a finger to my chin, gently brushing the skin with a sharp nail. The Princess is tall—enough to flaunt her dominion with ease. I remain frozen, powerless to raise protest against the sharp tingle of her unwanted touch.

  "You will serve faithfully—and without question. No longer shall you risk your life as you did in the war against our eastern neighbours. I have plans concerning our esteemed visitors. And given your persistent interest and history with them—you will make a fitting accomplice," Princess Ellysia proclaims, withdrawing her finger as she concludes.

  She then delves into the specifics and conditions of my service, sparing no details about what shall be expected of me. Never did I expect to be led—unwillingly, into this furtive path. A cold pang settles within my chest as I ponder over the Princess' words a second time—then a third. Her demands echoed relentlessly—prompting bitter memories to simmer forth.

  The Princess sighs and lightens her tone. "I am not asking you to bed their soldiers—nor do I expect you to. Though I will not raise issue over it, if only to see what could unfold," she teases with a devious look.

  I shake the vile thoughts away. It will never happen, not after they slew my own. "Not in a hundred lifetimes."

  "Of course," she answers, pausing briefly before continuing. "The humans are a conundrum. Their weapons are fascinating—forged with a mastery over the mechanical sciences far exceeding our own—or that of any nation. Yet, they come here seeking the simple lores of our land—even ones that a child ought to know. An intriguing development wouldn't you say?"

  Despite my stance on the visitors, I concede to her point of view. "Perhaps."

  Her violet gaze sharpens, almost making me take a step back. "Is that a yes?"

  I swallow the bitterness and relent. There hardly is a choice beneath her tempered gaze. "Yes your Highness. I... accept your offer."

  Princess Ellysia hums in satisfaction. "By my royal decree and by the will of our Queen, your Cadre is now under my service."

  "What of my Lord Captain?" I ask.

  She scoffs and turns on her heels, dismissing the question with an aura of indifference if not arrogance.

  "Unless your Lord Captain desires to be stripped of his rank, he or she will not dare oppose me. Take everything you need from your abode in the military quarter—rooms will be ready upon your return. The Interior Guard will escort you there and back."

  She briefly stops and looks back. "A little fox of mine told me they hail from a different realm. She even learnt their language whilst they were under their charge—enough to discern the basics. You will need to do the same for what I have in mind."

  Movement stirs from the corners of my vision. The figures step forth from the chamber clad in the ornate regalia of the Queen's esteemed soldiers. Four mages surround me with silent, disciplined looks and quickly point me out of the residence.

  I render a salute to the Princess before following the sorcerers, firmly placing a hand over my chest. All this time I was under watch. "I will do my best."

  The Princess continues onward, her back still turned to me. "See that you do."

  Once outside, I look around hoping to find High Marshall Serilas amidst the courtyard. There is no sign of him or his fellow sorcerers in the quiet expanse. But at the courtyard's heart, there lies a large fountain, its cascading waters filling the silence.

  Petals and leaves gathered within its gilded rim, its surface rippling beneath the sun's light. The head of a regal dragon sits at the fountain's zenith, its mouth cast into an eternal snarl—the origin of the gentle cascade, its flow constant as the sculpture's stony visage.

  "Move along now," a gruff voice intones.

  One of the guards move to stand before me, stepping between the fountain whilst continuing his reproach. "There will be ample time to gaze—just not now."

  Understanding the need for urgency, I comply and follow the sorcerers as they lead me out of the royal district. I risk a glimpse of the human embassy whilst passing by their holdings. Nothing has changed, save for the curious emergence of new standards on the domed roof—each one vastly different from another. The designs are simple, merely colours draped across the face without an ounce of flavour or artistry.

  Did they represent entire nations, or something more humble like a city's heraldry? There must be more to these simple drape of colours that I am missing. It will be something to keep in mind once this endeavor begins.

  The journey back to the military quarter offers nothing of interest as I venture through the trade and residential districts. The Princess' escorts prove to be just as amenable to silence as I am, merely following two or three paces behind—like shadows bound to my every step. Idle talk is not in my interest and the same holds true for them. Their presence is there still—as though a threat, to ensure fealty.

  It did not take long for me to arrive back at the imposing fortress of my abode. A handful of soldiers stare as we pass the archway, exchanging hushed whispers as their attention falls onto my escorts behind.

  'Interior Guard sorcerers," a fellow soldier murmurs, loud enough to betray a hint of caution in his voice.

  The others linger along the edges of the hallway, making way without exception for me and the guards. My name echoes from their lips—without shame or warmth. Some are people I know—fellow soldiers whom I fought with in battles past—but now distant, their eyes rife with veiled judgement.

  That stings more than I care to admit. I give none of them heed and continue onwards, passing by the Cohort's mess hall, training yard, and mending rooms where the wounded remain still. I pause upon a flight of steps at the west wing and turn around, meeting the unflinching expressions of the four Interior Guard mages who serve as escort.

  "Wait here, I need to break the Princess' missive to my Cadre alone. We have no commitments today, so it will not take long."

  "Very well—but a word of advice. Our Royal Highness had her sights upon you since the moment you returned to the city. Do not expect this to be a fleeting endeavor. Be prepared to serve months under her charge—maybe even years if she wills it," the High Marshall of the group intones.

  I turn around before the mages could glimpse the frown staining my lips. "I understand."

  With that, I ascend the steps each footfall sharp against the worn, callous stone. I can feel the weight of their gaze on me—stifling in its intensity. A moment of hesitation brings me to a halt just before the last few steps. Sephra and Oswin remain none the wiser about this—that our place within this Cohort is no more. The months of fealty, hardship, bloodshed—all cast aside.

  What would both of them think of our new charge? Would they oppose the arrangements—futile it may be? I exhale, clearing my thoughts and press onwards. There is little need for guesswork when the answers can be found just ahead.

  The corridor is bathed in pale light, cast from the tall, glazed windows spread every ten paces apart. There is no one in sight, and most doors are closed with only a few slightly ajar—my place included.

  No use delaying it. I reach the door, and gently push it open. It is time to break the news, and prepare them for what is to come.

  ===End===

  -Excerpt from the Memoirs of Princess Ellysia Ver’Nohira III – Recollections of the Human Arrivals

  It was… wild-the old days when we knew so little about them. Their arrival was sudden—unforeseen and mostly overshadowed by the war in the Fringe East, but the humans were there scurrying in the hinterlands. They were blighted by ignorance of our ways as we were of them.

  I needed someone whose absence would not be sorely questioned, and one who will not challenge the assignments I’ll impose upon them. I was not spoiled for choice—truly, but there was a mage who caught my intrigue.

  She possessed skills I believe would prove useful. Part warrior and part tracker, with a knack for learning foreign tongues as I would later find out. As a battle-mage, Inora is gifted—potent in all aspects of sorcery as stated once by her Lord Captain.

  I was right to put my faith in that woman.